On its shoulders, the sun carries the earth
in its repeated race from east to west.
It delivers us morning, and gives birth
to the day, healing me, leaving me blessed.
We give no praise for these beautiful days,
ignoring the breeze, unmoved by the life.
Our Sol turns us on in infinite ways,
my sons, my daughters, my brothers and wife.
I rant about how ungrateful we are;
still, I offer no ways of thanksgiving.
Before you sink, cold and bare, gone off far:
behind your mind, thank God we are living.
I need a veiled, knowing voice to speak out.
I need awe—-to close my eye—-to leave doubt.
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